


Shake the Earth, Steal the Moon

by dreaminginsepia



Category: Mythos (Radio), The Whisperer in Darkness (Radio)
Genre: A fair amount of drinking, F/F, and a sentient wardrobe, oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreaminginsepia/pseuds/dreaminginsepia
Summary: In which Parker and Lairre travel the country, detour via IKEA, and drink more than they should.A series of not quite one shots from various in between moments now slightly AU in places, which I am DELIGHTED about. Mary Lairre forever.
Relationships: Mary Lairre/Parker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 5





	1. Post Glamis

**Author's Note:**

> I have now listened to every episode of Mythos approximately 20 times, so in honour of The Shadow Over Innsmouth being released next week I finally wrote the one shots which have been threatening since July.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parker comes screaming off the M5, blasé at the threat of Norse gods.

‘Remind me why we’re here?’

Parker, currently engaged in digging through layers of detritus to reach the fabled bottom of a voluminous canvas tote bag, said nothing.

‘It’s just that you’ve been a bit all over the place lately, with this whole hippie-salt-of-the-earth-granola-girl personality.’

Parker withdrew a bag of mixed nuts, considered it for a second, then returned to digging.

‘And all you’ve said so far about why you came screaming off the roundabout at the M5 is ‘cinnamon buns’, which - no offence, babe - wasn’t all that helpful.’

Parker, still ignoring her, reached the bottom of the bag. Wincing with the effort of reaching over to the backseat, she shifted her weight slightly to get a better angle and trained a bland, placid gaze on Mary as her fingers groped around in the dust.

‘And - again, not to criticise - but you did promise we’d stop off for a fry up on the way back from Tintagel, and I was really looking forward to the sausages.’

‘Meatballs are better.’

‘Sure, but I wanted sausages.’

‘Everyone loves the meatballs.’

‘You don’t, you’re vegetarian.’

‘For the moment.’

‘Sure. So. Not to go on, but why are we here?’

With a sudden sound of triumph Parker snapped back into her seat like a bowstring, the movement dislodging an avalanche of items from her bag - more mixed nuts, two paisley scarves, and a guide to mushroom foraging - which scattered across the footwell, adding to the layers of flotsam and jetsam already filling the car. Mary could just about make out a pair of leather boots, a packet of beef jerky, what looked like a metal baton and a packet of menthols hiding away amidst the rubbish. Bits from old personalities, she supposed. This one obviously wasn’t one for tidying.

Looking back at her partner she rolled her eyes to see Parker triumphantly clutching another, smaller tote bag in her fist like she'd pulled the sword from the stone, eyes lit up with an almost feral triumph. It reminded Mary of something she didn’t quite remember. Something she’d seen, then hadn’t. Libby Ward, that was it. The look in Parker’s eyes now was the same as when she’d eviscerated Libby Ward in the dimension that didn’t exist. It was hot, either way. Just ignore the context. Or don't. Depends on the mood.

‘I knew I had another one in there.’

‘Right. Sure. So now you’ve finished being the environmentally friendly Mary Poppins of canvas tote bags -’ 

‘I just really fancied their cinnamon buns.’

‘Right.’

‘Have you never had them? They’re really good, and cheap, and they keep in the freezer.’

‘Right.’

‘I used to have them for breakfast sometimes, very continental.’

‘When was that? I’ve never seen you manage anything other than a vat of black coffee for breakfast.’

Parker shifted slightly in her seat, ducking her head to hide her expression and smooth the creases from layers of earth toned linen, and Mary felt a jolt as she realised.

‘Arjun.’

‘Yeah. He used to insist we had at least two bags in the freezer, bake them up when one of us was going to be away for a while as a goodbye breakfast.’

The next part - that it was the last thing he’d done for her - went unsaid.

‘I am sorry.’

‘I know.’

Mary looked out the window at the hulking blue monstrosity in front of her, squinting up at it in frustration.

‘Do they have to be from here?’

Parker, sliding her phone, purse and keys into various floaty pockets hidden in the layers of linen, nodded. ‘Nowhere else does them right. We’ll go in, head straight to the food market, then out again. No spells, nothing.’

‘That’s what Gerhardt said.’

‘Well, I’m not Gerhardt.’

With that indisputable, invaluable piece of information, the chaos witch opened the car door and - in one fluid movement - slipped out of her seat while somehow twisting round to stand, perfectly poised outside the car, looking down at Mary through the window.

‘Come on Mary. We haven’t got time to hang around.’

This had precisely the desired effect of setting Mary off into a litany of splutters and sudden movements, which Parker observed with a fondness she knew would be missed in the midst of her partner's bluster. With considerably less grace, Mary threw open the car door on her side, narrowly missing a small child running up and down the rows of parked cars, glowered at the child, grabbed her phone from the dashboard where it was grimly flashing up notifications it knew would be ignored, thrust the phone into her pocket where it resigned itself yet again to darkness, banged her head on the top of the door as she flung herself out, then ended the show by slamming the door with a forceful majesty - ruined only by the fact that she trapped the corner of her coat in the doorframe at the same time. Coat freed she stood, hands on hips, glowering at Parker from the other side of the car.

‘Hang around? Hang around? If I’d been driving, we’d be at a Littlechef by now.’

‘Ok, Mary.’ Parker called breezily as she walked away, elegantly locking the car behind her as she wafted her way through the car park.

Mary jumped slightly at the beep, then stuck her hands in her pockets and marched forwards, head down like a stalking dog.

‘Straight in, straight out.’

‘Yes, Mary.’

‘No detours to homewares.’

‘No, Mary.’

‘Though since we're here, I do need another bookcase'.


	2. Post Albion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Parker and Lairre have a much needed drink. Or two.

‘Shame we couldn't get Johnson to come. Reckon he owes us a round or two.’

‘Or two? Reckon he owes us the whole bloody bar. He tried to drown you, trap me in a pub basement, and destroy London with a nuclear winter slash murderous semi-mythical giant!’

‘One of those things being worse than the others.’

‘Right. That pub was very overpriced.’

Smirking, Parker swallowed her whiskey with an elegant tilt of her throat, and slid the glass over to the bartender across the wooden bar. The bartender looked at it, then back at her, then back at the glass like an actor who'd forgotten his lines. This version of Parker did seem to have that effect on people, Mary mused. Maybe it was the leather. As she pondered her partner's latest personality switch, Parker raised a sharp eyebrow at the hapless man and made the universal sign for ‘same again’. Or at least, she communicated something that made the poor man keen to very quickly refill her glass with a heavy handed measure of the good stuff before picking it up like the crown jewels and bringing it over in procession to place it, reverently, before her. Parker inclined her head in thanks and the man walked away, still stunned and blinking.

‘It’s the leather.’ Parker said thoughtfully, sipping her drink.

‘That's what I was thinking!’ Mary cried, throwing a glug of beer over the rim of the bottle in her eagerness to agree.

‘You were thinking about the leather, were you?’

‘Hard not to when you’re encased head to toe. Not subtle, is it, this personality?’

‘True. I like it though.’

‘Better than the earth toned hippy stuff?’

‘That was too...nice. Too bland.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed all the swallowing people with earth and my houseplants have never looked better, but it wasn’t really me.’

Mary nodded, thinking back to the whole ‘swallowing people with earth’ display. That had been very enjoyable to watch on her part as well.

‘More trolls than people.’ She mused.

‘Some would say there’s little difference.’ Came the arch reply, seasoned with another sip of whisky.

‘So this one’s a cynic as well as a leather fan and a handy shot with a gun?’

‘And lockpicker, escape artist and expert in hand to hand combat. Let’s not over-fixate on the leather.’

‘Though handy shot might be stretching it a bit far, he was basically cowering at your feet. Thank you for that, by the way. He’d been irritating me for centuries.’

‘Oh, happy to help. Maybe don’t refer to him as ‘cowering at my feet’ though. Makes it sound less ‘for the greater good’ and more ‘homicidal spree killer’.’

Mary hummed noncommittally. The image of Parker shooting that old bag was too satisfying for her to let go of so quickly, and she swilled a slug of beer around her mouth while reflecting on a lesson well taught. He’d think twice before stealing stories from strange women again and passing them off as his own. Well, no, she amended, swallowing. He wouldn’t, because that he was dead, and the new he hadn’t met them. But some Geoffrey of Monmouth somewhere knew better. Narrowing her eyes in satisfaction, she took another swig.

‘Would you like to come round to mine for a nightcap?’ Parker said, smirk ready at the corner of her mouth.

Mary instantly choked on her beer and sat there spluttering for upwards of thirty seconds while the smirk spread over Parker’s face. Though the air returned to her lungs her face remained bright red, and she cursed - not for the first time - the witch who’d designed these bloody efficient spectral wards. What was the point of being a ghost if you still had to deal with all the bodily shit? Great, she was corporeal, but was there no way to pause it when your very attractive, very confusing colleague asked you round to theirs?

‘A - uh - nightcap, nightcap?’ she managed, resisting the urge to take another swig of beer in case she set the cycle off again.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Parker tipped her head to the side, fingers sliding round the rim of her now empty whisky glass, considering the question. She looked at Mary’s hand gripping the bottle, nails pale against the green glass. She looked at the wariness in her partner’s eyes - their light blue sharp, piercing, shifting between almost colourless to suddenly vibrant. She looked at the lines of her arms, the muscles taught with simmering, barely restrained energy as Mary Lairre sat on the bar stool tense and watching.

‘Because I want you to. Have wanted you to for a while.’

‘We’re not just talking about a one off, are we?’

‘We could be, if you want. If you’d prefer something simple.’

‘H.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve seen people do this. Get involved. And it all goes tits up, it - always - does, and everyone’s left pissed off and reeling - and sometimes dead, or locked up in an asylum, or trapped underground by snake demons or eldritch beings because they wouldn’t sacrifice the other person when they needed to - and it’s all the worse because they let themselves get involved. And the problem is, that they know all this is probably gonna happen, because it always does, but they go into it anyway thinking ‘ooh, I’ll be different’, and then they aren’t, and it breaks them. I’ve got a good four hundred years without being broken. I could go for four hundred more.’

Parker nodded, ran her finger around the rim again to make a whistling sound, hummed in tune to it. Thought of Arjun. His face, his laugh, his bravery. His failure to recognise her anymore, her heart when she returned his grandmother’s ring to his mother. You could be broken, she mused, but it needn't be the end. Stopping her finger, she dismissed those thoughts and returned her focus to the ball of tense energy in the form of a very attractive, very snarky corporeal ghostly nun in front of her.

‘You’re not saying no.’ She observed.

‘Of course I’m not saying no. I’m just saying, we won’t be different.’

‘Even you’re wrong sometimes.’ Parker said softly.

‘I’m not wrong this time.’

‘You might be.’

‘Mm. Doesn’t matter.’

Parker managed a single, slightly choked ‘Oh?’ before preparing herself to bring down the shutters and never speak of this again.

‘Mm. Yes.’

‘Yes…?’

‘Yes, I’d like to come round for that nightcap. Maybe we can try your fabled cinnamon bun breakfast too.’

‘Oh. So all that stuff about being broken, then -’

‘Well,’ Mary said, finishing her beer and slamming the bottle into the bar a little more forcefully than was perhaps necessary, ‘I reckon it’s too late for me anyway.’

‘Good to know.’

‘One thing though.’

‘Yes?’

‘We’re not inviting Johnson.’


	3. Post-Post-Albion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary attempts to drink coffee and get dressed.

Mary woke up to the smell of coffee. Good coffee. Like a truffle pig she made her way slowly across the bed towards it, burrowing her way through the extortionately expensive sheets, eyes still closed and half conscious. Reaching the edge of the bed, she threw an arm out from under the covers to reach for the mug - and suddenly found herself very awake as both mug and coffee hurtled to the floor. 

Swearing, she reached down to grab it, hoping it hadn’t broken. 

Resting on top of a neat folded pile of clothes, the cartoon witch flying across the surface of the wholly intact mug almost seemed to wink at her, frozen in the second before she stuck her tongue out. She looked too smug for comfort. She had good reason to be, Mary realised a second later. Those were her clothes, and they were gathered far too neatly to have been left there by her. In fact, she distinctly remembered her jeans not making it further than the kitchen, so what they were doing here soaked with expensive Italian coffee was beyond her. 

‘H?’ she called, pulling the duvet around her, belatedly realising she was both cold and naked.

“Yes?’ came the replying shout, accompanied by the sound of an oven being opened. That was promising, at least.

‘Is there something trapped in that mug?’

‘...No?’

‘Is there a spell on it then?’

‘Not really, just the normal enchantments.’

‘...Which are?’

‘Self-cleaning, cupboard homing, self-preservation.’

‘And do your mugs have a sense of humour?’

‘...Oh. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be through in a minute. Can I have more coffee?’

That question was answered with silence, which Mary took as a hopeful yes.

Swinging her legs out of bed and kicking the pile of damp clothes petulantly, she picked her way through the piles of books covering the floor to the chest of drawers, and opened the top drawer.

She very quickly regretted this.

Clothes sprung out, apparently multiplying in front of her in waves. Socks spilled over the top of the drawer, desperately attempting to reach the floor. Panicking, Mary stuffed as much back in as possible and slammed the drawer shut. Breathing heavily, she realised a second later that despite this triumph, she was still naked, cold, and in need of clothes.

Taking a deep breath, she tried the second drawer. This one looked to be full of t-shirts with novelty slogans, which again began multiplying as soon as they saw daylight. Muttering swear words frantically to herself, Mary plunged her arm in and grabbed a handful, slamming the drawer shut as soon as she’d pulled them out. Turning to lean against the chest of drawers and catch her breath, she examined her prizes. A pair of flannel shorts in a bright red tartan and a black oversized t-shirt with ‘I’m with the chaos witch’ written on it in glittery blackletter font.

Narrowing her eyes, Mary threw them on and considered the effect in the mirror. Not bad, all things considering. There was a certain gothic je ne sais quoi to the ensemble, but it would make Parker laugh. Catching sight of her face softening at this thought, she turned away from the mirror, rolling her eyes. In front of her the wardrobe gaped open slightly. Curiosity piqued, she reached over and pulled the door open having, if anything, resisted the lessons of her morning so far.

No hordes of clothes came marching towards her. If anything, the interior darkened and shrank back, drawing her closer to make out its contents. She could see hangers covered in waves of soft linen - those she remembered from the earth phase - next to a scarlet minidress she remembered Parker wearing when they first met. Fire, then. There was a dress of deep blue bias cut satin flowing out towards her; a high collared black dress with stiffly starched sleeves; a fur coat with a silk lining and matching hat. Reaching in, her hands brushed the fabrics and they wrapped themselves around her wrists, drawing her closer. The wardrobe doors suddenly seemed very far behind her, the back impossibly far away, and still the clothes beckoned her on: a dress in green silk, one shouldered with a split up the side; a soft and fleecy hoodie in baby blue; a scratching nun’s habit in impossibly dark black. Blinking at the sight of the habit, her hands dropped to her sides. The tendrils of fabric, disappointed, snapped stiffly, suddenly pushing her away, drawing themselves back into regimented lines and making her stumble backwards to avoid their spikes until she found herself on the other side of the wardrobe again, wooden doors slamming shut.

Blinking, she stared at the wardrobe. She got the distinct impression it was glowering back at her.

Behind her Parker entered the room carrying a large French press full of coffee, a fresh pair of mugs, and a plate heaped with freshly reheated pastries. The trick to carrying them all at once, she’d found, was not to think about it too hard, and somehow you always had enough hands. Mary was standing still, head on one side as she considered the wardrobe, and Parker took the opportunity to admire her in the shorts. Glancing to the side, her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the neat pile of coffee soaked clothes and the fresh layer of underwear covering the floor. 

‘Did my clothes try to trap you? Sorry, I should have said, they do do that.’

‘Just the wardrobe. Your underwear would have settled for drowning me, I think.’

‘Mm.’ Parker agreed, pulling out a wooden tray from under the bed and setting the coffee, mugs and pastries on it. ‘It’s a side effect of drawing on the magical ecologies. The clothes get a little too sentient, don’t like it when I have to put them away.’

‘I could tell.’

Mary turned around, eyes lighting up when she saw the spread in front of her. Parker, already pouring the coffee, smiled. Stepping her way through the detritus she slipped her legs under the duvet, reaching over to take the fresh mug and kiss Parker on the temple as thanks.

She took a sip. It was as good as it smelled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other t-shirt puns considered include:
> 
> 'I went to ChaosFest 2015 and this t shirt is to remind me, because I had my memory wiped afterwards as per requirements'
> 
> 'I went to purgatory, and I haven’t left yet'
> 
> 'Real Cheese Society Member'


	4. Post-The Whisperer in Darkness (AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary sulks and Parker stares at the sea. Now AU!

Mary was pulling faces at the sunglasses again. Parker watched her out of the corner of her eye, hiding a smile as her girlfriend almost came off the bench leaning just a little too far forwards.

They were a little ostentatious, she knew. So was the black coat-black trousers-black turtleneck-black leather boots combo, the deep red lipstick. It worked, though. Rendlesham was proof of that.

‘It’s not even sunny.’ Mary said plaintively next to her, slumping back on the bench and crossing her arms.

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Yet you’re wearing aviators like it’s the middle of July, sitting on a bench staring at the sea in December. In England.’

‘Yep.’

‘In England, in December.’

‘You said.’

They went silent again, Parker taking a sip of her takeaway coffee - something ridiculous and syrup filled. Mary had ordered it for her, entirely ignoring her request for ‘one large black coffee, no sugar, no milk, extra coffee’ - which was fair, all things considered. She liked coffee with all the trimmings, always had. Just couldn’t always say it. It was typical of her currently recalcitrant girlfriend: impossible to tell whether it was a touching act of recognition, acknowledging the Parker behind the personality, or whether she was poking fun at a ridiculous request from a self styled woman of mystery. It was probably a bit of both, she decided, taking another sip and smiling as cream hit her nose.

Next to her Mary watched with soft eyes, snorting quietly.

‘I’ll get it.’ she said, reaching over to swipe the cream off before licking it from her finger. Parker felt her pupils dilate, and found herself suddenly very glad for the unseasonable aviators.

‘Bloody glasses.’ Mary mumbled, and Parker, unsure again whether her girlfriend knew her that well or was just fixated on the glasses, reached over impulsively to take her hand.

‘Do secret agents hold hands with their girlfriends on benches?’ Mary said, the snark in her words undermined by the soft motion of her fingers interweaving their way between Parker’s, thumb tracing small patterns over the back of her hand.

‘Well, I do. Is that enochian?’

Mary slowed for a second but kept on tracing the symbols, thumb pressing a little deeper.

‘So that’s a yes.’

She focused on the sensation, closing her eyes and doing her best to make out the exact letters Mary was tracing over her hand. Made it as far as deciphering pal-mals-ged and then, suddenly, the movement stopped.

She looked up, frowning, to see Mary watching her, considering.

‘What did it say?’

‘For me to know, and you to find out if you need to.’

‘Seems a little excessive.’

‘You nearly got yourself killed by a group of cultists in a forest in Sussex, babe, and you’re heading off to Innsmouth of all place - and you know what happened to Anders there, you know what it’s like - and I’m being sent to Scotland, again, on some made up assignment to keep me out the way, again, instead of going with you. Excessive, in our line of work? Call it well prepared.’

‘I didn’t nearly get myself killed.’

‘No, that podcaster and his ridiculous partner did. Do they even know what they’ve got themselves mixed up in?’

‘You know they don’t, you’ve heard the podcast.’

‘Yeah, I have. ‘It’s all bollocks’, honestly, I should drop my wards in front of her, see whether she’s still so convinced in her rational mind then.’

‘I’d like to see that.’

‘Yeah, I bet you would.’

A moment of silence again.

‘I’ll miss you.’ Parker said, gazing out to sea. The blue of the December waves reminded her of Mary’s eyes. Just as beautiful, just as threatening. Slate grey then crystal blue, cold but inviting. 

‘I’ll miss you too, H.’

‘I haven’t been H for a while now.’

‘You’re H to me.’


	5. During The Shadow Over Innsmouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during The Shadow Over Innsmouth, roughly around episode one. Spoilers for Bonus Episode 2!

Parker stared out at the sea of laptops and wondered, once again, what she was doing in a lecture theatre. The students, to their credit, had appeared completely unperturbed by her presence as they wandered in discussing coffee, or podcasts, or whatever it was people not involved in world-ending conspiracies talked about. Not even a hint of a whisper about the woman dressed entirely in black wearing sunglasses in the middle of January watching them from the back of the room.  To be fair to them, that had probably been covered in week one, alternatively described on the syllabus as: ‘Recognising the cult members and secret agents who like to attend my lectures, and why it’s best to ignore them’. Week two, ‘Why you can only blame yourself for getting tangled up in that conspiracy when I told you not to get involved’. Week three: ‘Has anyone seen Dan?’.

As she considered what a syllabus on trolls would look like, the heavy wooden doors slammed open. Eleanor Peck came marching down the steps on the wind, coat flying out behind her like a cape. In one hand she carried a hefty, battered leather bag filled with books, and in the other a thermos the size of her head. The smell of strong coffee followed her down like a smoke trail and, breathing deeply, Parker recognised it as the same blend her partner had been so enamoured with the first time she’d stayed over.  Shaking her head to clear the scent, she watched Eleanor set the thermos down on the desk at the front of the room and hit the computer in front of her repeatedly until it turned on with a wheezing groan. Fingers flying over the keyboard, she brought up the first slide of her powerpoint, and Parker caught her breath. 

Displayed on the screen was a photograph of a brick building - or at least, the remains of what had once been a brick building. Now it was a shell, windows empty and gaping, patches of open sky visible behind them. The front was overgrown, the walls covered almost to the first floor with greenery. Though she’d never been there herself - and really, it looked no different to any abandoned building in the country - she recognised it immediately. Borley Rectory.

The last time she’d seen it had been during a film night with Mary a year or so before. It was been Parker’s idea - both the film and the film night - and, arguably, not one of her better ones. While the basic concept of ‘watch a horror film with your secret agent ghost partner/girlfriend as an excuse to drink wine and laugh at what other people think is horrific’ had been good, she’d let herself down on the film selection. Browsing Netflix in advance, she’d thought watching a film called ‘Borley Rectory’ sounded like a fun idea, but twenty seconds in and Mary was already criticising the writer’s choice not to focus the story on her - ‘I’m not being big headed, babe, but I should definitely have been the protagonist, I’m the most famous ghost and it's not like you're in it’ - and by the time the character of ‘Phantom Nun’ appeared on screen, she thought Mary was dangerously close to becoming apoplectic - ‘That’s not even an accurate habit, they couldn’t even get that tiny detail right, and why would you not namecheck me? I’m not being funny, but I’m Mary Lairre? Mary Lairre! That's brand recognition right there!’.

At that point, Parker sensed some unresolved issues surrounding the whole protagonist/deuteragonist issue that kept cropping up, and decided to broach it as tactfully as she could. Unfortunately, she was a bottle of wine deep - the only way she’d been able to deal with the grouching - and what she'd intended as ‘flirty’ and ‘fond’ came out as her laughing sharply, waving her wine glass in the air and snarking ‘I’d namecheck you, even with second billing’. Mary’s eyes flashed sharply and the lines around her lost their definition for a second with anger. The film had been promptly forgotten.

At the memory of ‘angry film night’, as she'd taken to calling it, Parker felt her cheeks turning red, somewhat ruining the carefully cultivated ‘suave secret agent’ effect. Remembering where she was, she leant forward on her chair, giving off the impression of either a very dedicated student or a very attentive secret agent. In a way, she was both. Mary’s lectures were occasionally - often - irritating in the field, but they were always fascinating. Even now, there was something of the old spark still there. It was missing something without the giant troll, but then the students would probably be grateful for that.

As Eleanor developed her argument, bombarding her students with woodcuts of ghostly nuns and lists of secondary material which they could read if they didn’t believe her, while they looked on with wide eyes, hands frantically typing away notes, Parker closed her eyes and let it wash over her, pretending for a second that the troll was there after all. That they were in the field together, as normal, and Mary was just giving her far too much information, like always.  It worked, for a minute, and then Eleanor paused for a second and said, concisely, ‘Of course, it’s all bollocks really’, and Parker was pulled back into reality. Not that that wasn’t the kind of thing Mary would say - had said, frequently - but not about this. Not about herself. Tampering down her disappointment, she set her gaze back on the irascible lecturer. She was here to keep an eye on her partner, to make sure the cloaking spell was holding up. That was all.

Realistically, no one in the Department thought there would be any problems. Eleanor Peck had been teaching for years, doing freelance lecturing and publishing material which gave her the status of a reclusive celebrity in the field. When a reviewer referred to her ‘vivid, almost eyewitness-like level of insightful detail’, Mary was so smug that Parker considered getting it printed on a mug for her to use around the office. The following sentence, where the reviewer criticised her tendency to spin out into occasional pointless debates, had been less well received. Back then, the line between Mary and Eleanor Peck had been carefully maintained. Mary would pop up at a random university to give a lecture, keep an eye on the cult members and conspiracy theorists who attended, publish an article to keep the work recent and her profile high, then drop below the radar again: rinse and repeat. It was only when that podcaster contacted Eleanor Peck, and they’d realised that having an inside man could come in handy, that the identity had become full time. And even then, it would have been fine if only Parker hadn’t been worried. 

Mary had warned her it would happen, had told her that it always, always went wrong, that no one was different, however much they wanted to be, and like a fool she'd agreed with all this while thinking to herself that they would be the exception. Then her partner had suggested going undercover for longer, for a year or so, and she'd worried that it wouldn't be enough. That Mary just wouldn't be able to keep it up for that long. That something would happen to Mary when they found out who she really was. So she'd made the cloaking spells possibly, just possibly, a little stronger than they were intended to be and now, two years later, Eleanor Peck stood in front of her with no idea who she really was because she was cloaked even from herself. It was poetic, really.

As Eleanor came to the end of her lecture and started giving detail on the upcoming assignments - which mostly consisted of a rant on the scant differences between ‘real’ and ‘unreal’ (‘if anyone writes in their essays again that these people were stupid for believing in the supernatural I will MAKE you sleep overnight in a graveyard’), Parker surruptitiously stretched her arms out, checked her phone for new messages or ward updates, and pulled herself back into the shadows, ready to watch the students file out. 

Eleanor reached the end of her rant, sighed heavily, waved her hands at everyone to dismiss them, and busied herself shutting down the computer. Parker watched as the students left, listening in to their conversations as they passed by her. No sign of any cult members there, which was reassuring. Then again, they could always just listen to her on the podcast if there was anything they wanted to know. A small voice pointed out that she could have done that herself: a little voice quickly drowned out with a loud and tuneless internal humming.

Parker sat there for what felt like hours until all the students were gone, watching Eleanor succeed in turning off the computer and answer the final panicked queries about essays until, finally, they were alone. Hidden in the shadows still, she watched for any sign that Mary was still in there, any pretence that she was here checking on cover fully forgotten. At the front of the room, Eleanor reached into the battered leather bag and pulled a cinnamon bun out of a paper bag. Sitting on the front desk, she kicked her feet up and started eating the bun with relish, alternating bites with deep drags from the thermos. Parker left through the double doors, smiling to herself, the lecturer none the wiser.  
  


Review:  _ English Witches in the Sixteenth Century _ , by Eleanor Peck

[...] 

_English Witches_ gives its reader a vivid, almost eyewitness-like level of insightful detail. Occasionally the work is let down by a tendency to engage with debates which have long since been put to rest, the author seeing almost to take these issues personally and at times digress into relatively long-winded debates which are largely one sided, though very engaging. Despite this, the breadth and depth of knowledge is evident, and the strength of authorial voice such that it seems almost as if Peck lived these events herself: this voice is particularly strong in her discussions on convents as sites of memory, and nuns as agents straddling spiritual borders. The work’s view of the motivations behind the later witch hunts is clearly argued and broadly in line with the common academic consensus, though Peck ascribes more importance to the role of folklore than commonly accepted. Again, this argument rests on a deep knowledge of oral traditions which represents Peck’s deep breadth of expertise, and as such it is vital reading for anyone interested in the subject. Once again, the mysterious Eleanor Peck brings a fresh voice to a fraught field.


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